


If Happy Little Bluebirds Fly

by smileyfacegauges



Category: Silent Hill, Silent Hill (Video Game Series), Silent Hill 2 - Fandom
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Verbal Abuse, and he's like well i give you permission, and i was like that's nice i'm stealing it, and i'm like well i'm still stealing it so i did and now it's stolen, but welcome to my new au or something idfk, cheers mates lmao idk what else to tag this, this is NOT in ANY PART RELATED TO GOOMT, wax poetic, yeah anyway so a friend of mine had this idea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:55:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26151502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smileyfacegauges/pseuds/smileyfacegauges
Summary: A funny thing happened on a special date night to the concert hall.
Relationships: Harry Mason/James Sunderland
Comments: 6
Kudos: 25





	1. Chapter 1

Mary loved to play the piano. 

She saw the ad in the entertainment section of the newspaper. One of the most influential and stunningly talented concert pianists was coming to the symphonic in two months. This was someone she looked up to; James recalled his wife putting one of the musician’s CDs into the little portable stereo they had and gazing out the window while the CD ran for hours and hours on repeat. Mary _adored_ being swept away by mythical notes drawn from hammers on strings and braided with gold, pearls, and precious smiles. 

His wife would perch herself on the sun bench and gaze out the window at their plain lawn, the white chiffon curtain lined with fluffy ruffles pulled to the side between two fingers. She held the curtain to her cheek, loosely grasped in her fist, and smiled distantly at the yellow annual flowers guiding the cement walkway to their front door like a yellow brick road. 

That was one of her favorite movies, _The Wizard of Oz,_ and her very favorite track on that CD was _Somewhere Over The Rainbow._ Mary fell away from the mortal world when she heard that old, sad fairy tale dream. It would always be a shame to see her leave him for the parade in the Emerald City, but James knew where she was happiest - so he was happy, too, and always wished her the best. 

Whenever they sat down together to immerse themselves in the fantastical world of Oz and revisit their loyal friends, it was a sacred two hours for his beautiful young bride. They would curl up on a warm summer evening, or a chilly fall afternoon, or a late winter night with hot cocoa and Chex mix hot out of the oven; he would sit her down when she was glum; he would pop in the VHS when she was giddy.

James knew when she’d laugh and knew when she’d snuggle closer, clutching his shirt and her head nestled on his shoulder. He hardly ever failed to predict it, for her reactions were like clockwork. After the five years they’d been together her love for the movie remained the same - or even grew, so he liked to think, because he loved how she loved it, and she knew that. 

Perhaps this was the first thing he learned the quickest about Mary Shepherd (-Sunderland, as it was) and made it a personal goal to share these moments with her. There was a time where _The Wizard of Oz_ meant nothing to him but boredom. 

Then Mary came along, and _The Wizard of Oz_ became as priceless as the oldest artifact in the world.

Judy Garland sang like an angel. Her voice was earthy and full. She carried storms and bright blue skies, wheat fields and the rainbow she dreamed of in notes that were known by all musicians, but were refitted by her soul, and woven into robust, heavenly tones that were an untouchable instrument that none could compare to.

She left a hole in the world that could never, ever be filled. 

Mary always got teary when Judy prayed to the sepia sky amongst the hay. James had to smile each time because she’d sniffle, and he’d tug her close against him, and she’d place her head on his shoulder where he could turn just the slightest and press a kiss to her head.

He liked the smell of her shampoo.

Of course James called the box office immediately after the ad was spotted and reserved two tickets. Well— not _immediately._ He waited until she went off to work sighing and wishing she could see her favorite pianist in concert. She took the CD with her to play in the car. The moment he heard the car pull out of the driveway, he picked up the phone and called the theatre.

Bless the girl on the other side of the line. She was so patient with James as he tried to visualize the seating the way she described it to him. Theatre was a strange new world to him, and his questions were jumbled, repetitive, and confusing to both of them. Nevertheless, Susan (that was her name, and odd to him; ‘Susan’ is an older woman’s name, like Ethel or Rose, and she didn’t sound a day over eighteen) deciphered and answered all his questions, was very sweet and kind, and helped an ignorant husband find the best seating in the house to see her idol behind a piano.

James kept that hard-hitting purchase from Mary forever.

Thank god he was able to surprise her with a gift that wasn’t for her birthday, or their anniversary, Christmas, or Valentine’s. Mary was born in the summer, and their anniversary in the spring. (April showers brings May flowers.) (Or _Mary_ flowers, as he liked to say.) _(She called him a nutty cheeseball for it.)_ No, this date was in the fall, November 12th; crisp, fresh; copper, ruby, and gold adorning the trees and transforming sidewalks into yellow brick roads.

 _We’re going to dinner later,_ James informed his wife that morning. _I thought it’d be nice to go on a date._

_A date? James.._

_You’ll probably want to wear something nice. I got us a reservation at that Chinese place you like._

_The Jade Lotus? James! You’re kidding!_

_Not at all, honey._

_What’s the occasion?_

_I just thought it’d be nice. We haven’t been on a date in awhile._

_Oh, but James.. The Jade Lotus, it’s— it’s expensive. I don’t think we can—_

_Don’t worry about it. I promise. We deserve a nice night out once in a while._

_.. oh, I.. I know you’re right. .. you’re so sweet to me.._

_Wear something nice._

_Tch, I know that!_ **_You_ ** _have to wear something nice, too. Do you have anything you can wear besides polos and jeans?_

_Hey, I have other clothes._

_Coulda fooled me. Our closet is full of_ **_my_ ** _clothes._

_I guess I’ll prove you wrong._

_I guess you will._

James wore a grey sports jacket, slate khakis, and a blue button-up.

Mary was so surprised that they were almost late for their reservation.

After dinner, he didn’t drive them home. He got on the freeway and drove further into the city. Beside him, his wife (wearing that modest red dress he loved on her, the one that wrapped over the front and was pinned to her side with a gold clamshell broach, with shoulder pads and sleeves that were long enough to cover her elbows; she wore the simple, delicate gold chain strung through a teardrop pearl pendant about her neck, and her clip-on imitation pearl earrings on full display, for she’d twisted her sunny hair into a ballerina bun; she looked like a 1950’s bombshell, and James asked her for her autograph when she came to the living room to announce she was ready to go - she’d blushed) asked and asked where they were going, what was he doing? giggling and trying to weasel a crumb of information that he was unwilling to let fall to the table.

Then she was deadly silent when the concert hall, glittering and majestic, came into view. 

She hadn’t made a peep when James pulled into the parking structure and had to unbuckle his seatbelt and lean out the window to get the ticket from the whirring and clanking old kiosk.

In fact, she hadn’t moved a muscle even when they’d found a parking spot and the engine shut off.

At that point, James was beyond nervous; far past terrified. He clutched the keys in his lap, scared to look at her. The car was stifling; the screech of tires and humming engines echoing in the lot pierced his eardrums through to his brain. Mustering his gumption, he held the keys a little tighter, crinkling against one another, and bravely chanced a look at his wife.

His wife, his Mary, his gorgeous, wonderful, darling Mary (Mary, quite contrary, whose garden is ever in bloom), had streams of diluted mascara streaking her cheeks.

_Mary..?_

Panic and heartbreak swelled his throat. What had he done? He turned in his seat, clutching the keys in both hands now like a beggar before a noble, and staring at her as pitifully as one, too.

_Mary.._

She wiped her cheek, sniffled, and frantically dug in her red and gold clutch for a tissue. James was left in limbo while she yanked down the sun visor and dabbed her face clean in the small mirror, where she stared into her own reddened eyes that refilled with tears, gently patted them again, then pushed the visor to the ceiling.

All James could do was wait in agony.

 _You did all this?_ she asked him, finally lifting her jade green (and teary, oh sweetie) eyes to her husband’s wide, imploring set the color of lake moss. 

How was he supposed to answer that? _Well.. yes._

Mary gazed back at him as though she couldn’t decide whether she existed in a dream, or if James was some kind of a trick of the light. _Why?_

 _Why?_ He frowned a little. _Because I love you, Mary._

_You’d take me to dinner at The Jade Lotus and to the concert because.._

_Because I love you._

_There’s no special occasion._

_There is._

_What is it?_

_I love you._

Though James loathed to see his wife cry, there were exceptions he could count on one hand. James watched Mary’s face contort in an absolutely ugly way and the tendons in her neck protrude with the strain to withhold what couldn’t be withheld. But this was ugliness he welcomed, because then Mary burst into sobs that came from a place of love and happiness. 

_Oh, Mary, honey.. sweetie, don’t cry.._

_You’re_ **_ruining_ ** _my makeup,_ she accused him through her blubbering, and both of them chuckled, and the visor came down again. James could only smile while she tried to fix herself up, even though the fat tears refused to stop falling.

_I’m sorry, darling._

_I don’t think you are._

_No, not really._

Thank goodness she was able to use that one tissue she had, damp and grey and near-useless, to dab her eyes and wipe her nose and still look presentable. Her husband glanced at his watch.

_Mary, we need to get going. We need to pick up the tickets at the box office._

_Okay. Okay. I’m okay,_ she soothed herself more than him, dropped the mirror down for one more check, and then got out of their skymist blue 1977 Pontiac Ventura to walk arm-in-arm with James to the venue.

He felt like a piece of oily gravel in a truck stop lot in a place so lavish and unfit for him. White marble with nary an unsightly vein; a dizzyingly high ceiling and its proud, enormous, spiraling crystal chandelier somehow suspending as delicately as the pearl upon Mary’s chest; impeccably clean, cream carpets soft as clouds beneath their feet; gold-plated handrails; patrons dressed in expensive, high fashion elegance, poised like royalty, who he felt glanced at them over their sculpted cheekbones as though they were vermin. This was their world, and they were intruding; smiles seemed tight-lipped and only for politeness sake. 

James felt unbearably hot in that sports jacket, his young and pretty bride on his arm, amongst a society that only tolerated him for a night.

The pair milled about the lobby. Due to James’s nervous planning, they had made it to the concert hall with a healthy amount of time to spare. Since there was a bar, illuminated by a backdrop of white lights and a trim of gold beneath the ledge, the (Shepherd-) Sunderlands chose to have a pre-concert cocktail to calm their nerves.

A few patrons were waiting ahead to put in their order. Mary informed James she was going to go find the powder room; he said he’d order her drink and wait for her. Off she went, the woman in the red dress, her beau watching her retreat into the confusing establishment and too paranoid to ask for directions.

A Cosmopolitan and a vodka tonic were presented to him a few minutes later, and after a suspicious glance and request for his ID from the bartender. He didn’t blame him, and felt only an odd brush of self-conscious shame for still looking so damn young. James kept the grimace to himself when he exchanged the drinks for folded bills, and a few extra to thank the man for his expertise. He was dying to knock the vodka back but was a gentleman and waited for his wife. In the meantime, he took to studying the well-to-do crowd, trying to ignore his racing, anxious heart.

Everyone seemed to know each other. The women were fashionable and young (or old, made young) and the men dressed snappy and their haircuts all but identical in some way, whether in style or in cut. James thought he’d looked really nice when he got a haircut for the date and carefully combed it to the left. Amongst these people, he only felt more paltry.

A man laughed loudly somewhere nearby. It startled him. The sound was rich and genuine, out of place; _normal_. James scanned the crowd for whoever that was, and was again surprised when Mary suddenly reappeared in his vision. He smiled at her, kissed her cheek, and carefully placed her cocktail in her hand shortly after their upscale bartender verified that she, too, was of drinking age. (And she was: Mary had turned twenty-four this year, and it was going to be a very long one for all her fretting about twenty-five.)

They’d almost finished their cocktails (truly working to make them last) when that laugh rose above the conversations again. Their eyes flashed to one another. Mary slowly smiled, then giggled into her glass. James smiled because she did, though his head turned to look for the disembodied voice hidden deep away.

The lights thrice dimmed, so they drank the last of their expensive alcohol, thanked the bartender, and filed into the theatre.

An usher gave them the playbill and led them to their seats: orchestra, dead center, Row E. Mary tittered, hushed and excited, to her date about their prime location (no, he won’t tell her how much it cost) and about the protegé they were about to see. James listened and nodded along. They read the program together until the lights went down. She threaded their fingers and wrung his hand in wild anticipation for her favorite, most inspirational pianist to grace the stage.

From stage left and the glow of a spotlight, to the applause of the entire auditorium, emerged a woman whose skin was naturally tan and coppery; whose midnight, wavy hair gathered in a low bun on her neck, a shiny barrette clipped above her ear; her smile as warm as the lights; her presence more human than her audience. She strode to her piano in her floor-length, ivory lace over dark green satin and spaghetti-strap dress, which was the height of daring celebrity fashion, and clasped her hands to bow.

 _She looks like Kate Winslet,_ Mary whispered to James during the applause. James smiled and nodded, and had no idea what she meant.

For an hour they listened to Jodi Mason play from the old masters, and Mary clung to James’s arm. At intermission they parted for the respective restrooms. James beat Mary back to the lobby in no time at all. Out of nervous habit he lingered by the bar and danced the flamenco with the idea of sneaking another vodka tonic to pound back before his wife returned, his financial livelihood be damned. He was just about to pull out his thin wallet when that _laugh_ echoed.

It sounded closer. James stretched his neck, trying in vain to peer over and around the milling patrons for whoever the _hell_ that was he’d heard three times now. All he wanted to know was what this guy looked like, and maybe, just maybe, he was as ordinary as the two common-folk that infiltrated this fine concert tonight.

Three pulses from the overhead lights ended intermission. Mary hadn’t returned from the bathroom. James stuck to the bar like glue waiting for people to pass and for the right opening to slither through to look for her. He took the first he saw and muttered his ‘excuse me’s and ‘sorry’s along the way. 

Mary often chastised him about keeping his head down and not looking where he was going. Her grievances had merit. With his eyes on the floor he didn’t see a man headed into his path, and when they (rather comically) collided, they shared the same wide-eyed, spooked expression reminiscent of scared cats.

“Shit!” exclaimed the other victim. James’s eyes slightly expanded a little more when the man grabbed his arms to steady him. “Sorry about that! Are you okay?”

“Uh, yeah, fine,” the Sunderland fumbled, taken wildly off guard by a handsy approach from a stranger, the sincere concern on his face, and overall discomfort of embarrassment. “Fine. Sorry, I didn’t—“

“I didn’t see you there,” he interrupted, vocalizing the very same thought. “Jeez. Heh. You know, my wife always tells me to look where I’m going,” said the voice that smiled. “She says, ‘Stop looking up at the clouds, Harry, your eyes should be in front of you!’ And I always tell her, ‘Why? The sky’s pretty, and that cloud looks like a polar bear.’ Drives her _nuts._ ” 

What else could James do but stare back at him? This man, perhaps about as young as he, or about his age, and whose name was apparently Harry, had not yet let him go. Harry had dark brown hair slicked shiny and flat back on his head, showing off a handsome, sharp widow’s peak above thin, expressive eyebrows and earthy, lively eyes. He had James trapped. This whole interaction had hardly lasted half a minute, but by now it must’ve been five hours.

“Anyway,” Harry shrugged, his hands sliding off his sleeves at last. “We should probably get inside—“

“James? Is everything okay?”

Both heads turned to Mary standing worriedly beside them. Harry straightened his back, and James became defensive of his wife on the turn of a dime. However, when he expected him to leer at her like he’d seen many married men do this evening, Harry looked her only in the eyes, politely surprised. 

That’s when the defensiveness abated, and became pride. 

“Everything’s fine, Mary,” her husband reassured. “We just ran into each other.”

“Literally!” Harry agreed. “Head in the clouds, eyes off the ground. Sorry about that. Now, I don’t wanna keep you good folks from the show,” he continued, gesturing to the open doors and the waiting ushers flanking them. “After you, and I’ll keep my distance this time.”

Mary offered him a small smile. “Thank you. You too. Uh, enjoy the show.”

“Thanks,” James echoed, taking Mary’s hand to lead her away. 

The Sunderlands were shown to their seats in the darkening, full auditorium. Once comfortable, Mary scanned the crowd over her shoulder, then leaned in to James before the roar of applause welcomed the artist back to the stage. He couldn’t hear whatever she was whispering over the noise, and once it settled, leaned in closer to whisper, “What? I didn’t hear you.”

“Shh!” she hissed back, waving him off. “I’ll tell you later.”

Nodding, he sat back, took her hand in his, and soaked in the last hour of the concert.

The beautiful young woman got a standing ovation that lasted perhaps three minutes. By the end of it, their hands were stinging and hot and their arms weak. Mary carefully pressed her bundled, grey wad of tissue under her eyes while they waited for their turn to file out, creeping up the aisle with their social superiors.

In the expansive, glittering lobby, many of the attendees mingled to get their last conversations in. The bar had closed for the night and the hall’s employees respectfully lingered, scattered, on the floor to silently thank the audience for their patronage, and serve as a reminder to turn in for the night. However true that was, this was perhaps the only time Mary and James would find themselves in such extravagant circumstances. They mutually decided to hang around as long as they acceptably could to relish the couple hours where they were as important as the others and deserving of their time here, and when the pointed looks and forced smiles of their hosts strongly suggested they leave, they did.

Out in the chilly fall night, James shirked his jacket and hung it over Mary’s shoulders. She gave him a tired smile, worn out from the excitement, and emotional highs and lows of their perfect, once-in-a-lifetime date.

Her feet were sore from wearing her special high heels (which were a splurge purchase she didn’t realize were taller than they were until she got home and wore them for James; in those patent red shoes she was taller than him by an inch, and after they’d gotten over their mild shock, James only grinned. _Those are nice,_ he’d said. _Even though I’m taller than you now?_ she’d warily asked. _That’s a part of why they’re nice,_ he’d replied, and she gave him a kiss) and walked slowly with him across the long courtyard towards the parking across the street.

“Mary?” he ventured, looking at her. “What was it you were going to say in the theatre?”

“Hm?” She sounded sleepy.

“After intermission. You were trying to tell me something, but I couldn’t hear you over the applause.”

She stared at the pavement while she tried to recollect the train of thought. “Uhh.. I don’t.. I’m tired, James. I don’t remember.” 

“That’s fine.”

“Ugh, my feet are killing me,” she groaned as they clogged across the road when the signal allowed it. “I hate these things.”

“You look really nice in them,” James complimented.

“Thank you honey, but I’m _so_ glad that I don’t have to wear heels all the time. I don’t know how some women do it.”

“I don’t know, either,” he agreed, leading Mary into the concrete structure. “I respect the women who have to do that.”

“It feels like I have blisters all over my feet!” Mary whined, picking up her feet in turn to give them just a second’s respite while James pressed the button for the parking lot elevator. “They’re like big.. _pads_ and my toes are rubbing up in the front! I bet they’re bleeding..”

“When we—“

“Pop a couple aspirin when you get home and run some hot water in the bath,” advised a smooth, smoky, feminine voice from behind that jarred them so badly that true fear whipped them around and displayed itself spread eagle over their young faces. The couple gawked like children watching a magic act at another couple a few feet away. A familiar man, obviously the husband of the woman beside him, was smiling warm and bright, and toting a wardrobe cover over his arm. His wife, dressed casually in jeans and black leather jacket over a stretchy white shirt, exuded an odd air of wisdom, and her expression was kind.

“Soak your feet,” she continued. “Wash them, and be gentle. Put some neosporin on the blisters and elevate them on a pillow if you can sleep like that.” The elevator announced itself, its well-maintained doors making no unnatural noise as they retracted. “Put band-aids on the sores, even if the blisters are intact.” Her man gestured for the blonde couple to fill the lift, and since he was the last to join them, took the honor of pressing the button. A glance back at James asked for his floor, and James just nodded. Their temporary attendant drew back, putting his hand away in his dark blue jeans.

“Do you have work tomorrow?”

“Yeah.. well, n-no,” Mary quickly corrected. “No, not until later.”

“Then keep your feet up as much as you can,” the woman instructed. “You could also ice your feet and massage them, or soak them in the bath again. You’ll feel so much better. Do you have to wear heels again tomorrow?”

“No..”

Her laugh was delightful and husky. “Good! They’re a pain in the ass!” The non-Sunderlands shot looks at each other like they were in on some joke; the man nudged her with his elbow. All four bodies rocked when the elevator came to a stop. “I have full respect for women who practically _live_ in their heels for their careers,” she sighed, checking the green digital number displayed on the border, and led the departure. “I just don’t know how they do it.”

James distractedly nodded this thanks to his opposite holding the door open for him and his wife, and looked at him again once they were a quartet on a block of yellow-striped concrete.

Mary nervously chuckled. “Yeah, I do too. It’s funny, I was just saying the exact thing to James, in fact..”

“James! Is that your name?” Curiosity studied the mentioned, then it took to the woman in red. “And you are..?”

“Mary.” She fumbled with her clutch to give her hand freedom to shake the one outstretched for greeting. Mary’s eyes widened a bit more; this other woman had quite the official grip. 

“I’m Jodi,” said the famed concert pianist. “This is my husband, Harry.”

“Hello! Good to see you two again,” Harry waved, then tried to properly shake their hands with that long bag slung over the right arm. “Good to finally have a proper-- oh, whoops, hang on,” he mumbled, shifting it to the other side. “Good to finally have a proper introduction, was what I was trying to say.” He completed the ritualistic greeting and looked at Jodi. “Honey, this is the woman I was telling you—“

Jodi gasped. “Oh! _You’re_ Mary! I should’ve known!“ Her eyes darted to Harry. “You were right, she looks just like—“

“Madonna in _Evita,_ I know!”

Mary’s eyes lit up like sunlight through diamonds. James didn’t get the reference, but he certainly knew who Madonna was. An irrational spike of indignant jealousy struck his chest, and he wisely kept it all to himself. 

Jodi’s giggle also came with a little shove to Harry. “Sorry,” she apologized to the Sunderlands. “Harry mentioned he met you two and he wouldn’t stop talking about how nice you looked.”

“Just fantastic.”

“Absolutely!”

A big smile rejuvenated Mary’s face. She humbly ducked her head, laughing softly, a blush spreading over her cheeks and tucking imaginary loose strands of hair behind her ear. “Oh, uh, thank you.”

Jodi turned her eyes to James. “You’re pretty handsome, yourself. You two make a very nice-looking couple.”

James tipped his head and looked down to hide his chagrin. He couldn’t gather himself to say ‘thank you,’ but glanced up when Harry lightly scoffed. 

“Jodi, you’re embarrassing them,” he chastised. “And we’re holding them up. Mary’s gotta get off her feet.”

“Oh no, no! It’s okay,” Mary hurriedly excused. “It’s fine! I’m fine. I’m—“ She looked at James, bit her lip, and then looked at Jodi. “I actually— I wanted to thank you for tonight. You’re my favorite pianist,” she gushed as politely as she could, bringing a warm smile to the artist’s face. “This was huge for me. I have your CDs, I listen all the time.”

“Aw, thank you!”

“I’m trying to learn how to play the piano and you’re such an inspiration. You’re incredible, you’re so young and you’ve accomplished _so_ much—“

“You’re so sweet!”

“— and you have no idea how much it means to me that I got to see you live and in person, and meeting you like this is.. this is the best night of my life.”

Pouting gratefully, Jodi stepped forward and closed Mary in a hug. The poor woman in red looked shocked, belatedly lifting her arms to return it. She progressively appeared more and more bewildered the longer the unexpected embrace went on.

“Oh, you’re so sweet,” Mary’s idol cooed by her ear, wiggling their bodies as Jodi hugged her tighter. “That’s so nice of you. I’m so, so glad you came to see me.”

James dumbly observed their wives having this special moment. He smiled when Mary’s stare darted his way, then let it fade when it left him. The women began their own conversation after Jodi pulled back, and he jumped a little when Harry attempted to engage him, too.

“Did you have a good time tonight, James?”

“Um, yeah,” he mumbled, keenly aware that Harry had shuffled closer to him. His green eyes met the other’s deep brown, somehow clearer and oaken under the harsh overhead parking lot light. The man was all friendliness and charm. “It was great.”

“Great.” Harry lowered his head and leaned in like he was telling James a secret. “Though she wouldn’t be offended if you started falling asleep at any point,” he murmured by his ear. “Trust me. She sort of sees it as a compliment,” he added, correcting his posture. “Like she plays well enough that she can lull people to sleep.”

James’s chuckle was stilted. “No, I didn’t.. Mary plays her CDs all the time. It was nice to, uh..” The vague gesture he made didn’t help him find words. “Uh..”

“I hear you. Yeah, she’s pretty okay with the piano, more or less. I still think she needs to look into getting a day job..” 

Though the joke was funny, James felt a bit guilty about finding it as such. He did what he could to smother the smile, choosing to appear rude rather than laugh at a joke that Mary might’ve overheard and been mad at him for later. In contrast, as it was seeming like a constant with him, Harry smiled for the both of them.

It would’ve been creepy if Harry wasn’t so blatantly genuine.

“Whaddya do, James?”

The embarrassment and shame dropped a bucket of garbage over his head. He hated to talk about his pitiful jobs. “Clerical work at a freight company and work part-time at an auto shop.”

Well, Harry seemed to be colored in surprise. James wasn’t sure how to feel about that. “Wow. You into cars, huh? You ever driven cross-country as a trucker or anything?”

James knew he was prone to projecting judgments onto people, but his suspicion was no less real. “No. I don’t think I’d be very good for trucking. It’s too much.”

“No kidding. It’s a pretty tough job. I’ve got respect for truckers.”

“.. yeah. And, yeah, I like cars, I guess.”

“So the auto shop, are you a mechanic?”

The young man was dying to get off this subject. “Yeah,” he replied, a bit shorter than he’d intended. “Pretty much.”

Harry looked thoughtful. “Where’s your shop? Is it around here in the city?”

He pushed his clammy hands into his pockets. “No, it’s uh.. back in Ashfield. Uh, Uncle Steve’s Auto Repair.”

“Oh! Nice. You like it there?”

James could only shrug a shoulder. “It’s alright. There’s not too much to complain about.”

“You ever wanted to open up your own shop, or..?”

This time, he scoffed. “Nah. No way. I’m not a businessman. Just a grease monkey.”

Harry chuckled softly. “Hey, it’s good work. Those’re a set of skills I definitely don’t have. I can barely change a tire! Thank god Jodi learned. It works out great like that. I like to cook and clean, she likes to _not_ do that, but she’s got the actual useful stuff down pat..”

“Well, if you ever need a tune up or something,” James suggested, “you can come to Steve’s and I can get you something at a discount.”

Harry’s breathy giggle went along with him rocking back, delightedly, on his heels. “Aw, thanks! I appreciate the offer.. now if only we lived around here, I’d take you up on it.”

He couldn’t deny he was somewhat disappointed to hear that. “No? Where’re you from?”

“Vermont.” Harry thumbed over his shoulder as though it were just down the street. “We’re only up here for Jodi’s concert. We fly home tomorrow to shoo the in-laws out of the house.”

Vermont sounded nice. James hadn’t traveled very far out of Ashfield all his life. He’d always heard about its jaw-dropping autumn trees lighting up the landscape with the crimson and gold; a natural forest fire that burned, but never harmed. “Ah.”

“We weren’t going to be gone for very long, but someone had to babysit Cheryl.”

They have a daughter. She piqued James’s interest almost immediately, although it wasn’t right to assume Cheryl was their child; after all, Cheryl could be their dog or cat. “Cheryl.. is she your daughter?”

He didn’t know Harry could beam any brighter or prouder until that moment. “She is! Sweet little thing. Three years old. Just adopted her earlier this year and god, we feel bad about taking a trip like this so soon. We can’t wait to get back to her.”

Now James was several shades of surprised and perplexed. “Adopted? A three-year-old?” Harry nodded. “Why would you adopt a three-year-old? Why not a baby?”

Despite that being a pretty rude question, it was a common one and one that Harry honestly enjoyed answering - especially since he was given permission to. “Well, first off, Jodi’s infertile,” Harry nonchalantly revealed. “It’s a bummer. She really wanted to have a baby, but, y’know, some things just don’t work out the way you expect ‘em to.”

For James, adoption was a solid no-no in his, and Mary’s, traditional upbringings. To hear of a young couple (really, how old were they? perhaps Mary knew, since she knew all about Jodi Mason, and he didn’t absorb anything from the program) adopting was out of his comfort zone, infertility or no. “Yeah.. I guess. Does it bother you?”

“What?”

“That she—“

“That she’s infertile?” The corner of James’s mouth tipped towards a frown. This guy sure liked to interrupt. “Nah. Not at all. I’m more upset for her, since it meant a lot to her to have a baby. I’ll love her no matter what,” he told his acquaintance, “bumps in the road and all. She’s got a big heart, and adoption was her idea.”

“Really?”

“Yep. And as much as she wanted a baby, we decided that we wanted to adopt an older kid. Too many kids are stuck in the system forever because parents don’t want to work with that.” He shrugged. “It sucks. So we’ve got a three-year-old at home with Jodi’s parents. They came to visit. Not gonna complain! The in-laws are pretty great, we’ve known each other since high school, and I’ll never say no to free, reliable babysitting.”

The natural sequence of the subject meant that it was Harry’s turn to ask about the future of James and Mary’s familial fantasies. As it was, he said to Harry, he and Mary had talked about it a little, though James confided that he felt they were far too young and financially unstable to get too serious about it. That information tickled Harry’s curiosity.

“How old are you two?”

“I’m twenty-three,” James replied. “Mary’s twenty-four.” He eyeballed his companion. “How old are you and Jodi?”

“Wow! Yeah, you guys looked pretty young,” Harry mused, looking over at their tittering spouses. “I’m twenty-eight, she’s thirty.”

“You guys are pretty young, too.”

The older husband shrugged. “Eh, yeah, I guess. We’re getting up there.”

James scoffed. “You guess? You’re not much older than me.”

Harry puckishly scrunched his face. “Mmmmmm, yeah, that’s true, buuuuut.. I _still_ got five years on you, so.. eeeehhh..”

The smile-that-wanted-to-be-a-grin fought for its rights to his face. “I didn’t know it made that much of a difference.”

“There isn’t. I’m just pulling your leg.”

“Heh.”

“So—“

“So how long have you been married?”

Harry tilted his head side to side. “Oh, uh.. well, good question. We don’t always celebrate our anniversary. In fact, we both forgot about it the last two years. Not for any ill reason,” he made sure to set straight. “We’ve been together so long it wasn’t any different from any other day. Kinda nice. Our friends call us sickening, because we’re apparently _that_ much in love.”

James smiled. “I guess there are worse things.”

“Oh, totally.”

“It sounds like you were high school sweethearts.”

Harry frowned, his puzzlement questioning his strange acquaintance. “Yeah, but how’d you come to that?”

“You said you’d known your in-laws since high school.”

He barked a laugh. “Oh! Well, shit, I guess I did. Yeah, that kind of gives it away, huh?”

Though Harry seemed to be rather intelligent and well-rounded, James suspected that a few cards had fallen from the deck. But, if anything, Harry’s penchant for oversharing cut down on a lot of lulls and struggles for questions. James was beginning to relax more since his conversation partner was so happy to do all the talking, so long as he was given enough to go on. He'd milk it for all it was worth.

“Yeah, a bit. So did you marry right out of high school?”

“Eeeeh..” Harry drew himself up a little straighter, squashing his face at the concrete beam overhead mull over the specifics. As their conversation went on, the professed mechanic observed time and time again how animated Harry was - like a cartoon character plucked right from the TV. It was strange, yet even more strangely, comforting; even endearing. 

“Sorta, yes. I say that because we’d _planned_ to do that, then.. kinda forgot for a few years. Which goes back to what I said before, about forgetting our anniversary because we’re too busy enjoying life together. Makes you wanna puke, huh?”

James tilted his head and shrugged his brows. “In a good way.”

“You’re one in a million, James.” He rocked on his heels and looked over at his darling wife some paces away. “Our folks are kinda traditional; graduate high school, get hitched, go to college, get a job, have a baby.. y’know, the usual expectations.” Harry glanced at James. “We didn’t follow _all_ those steps. We graduated and got married when we remembered to, but I didn’t go to college. Jodi did, for a bit. An art and music college,” he clarified. “Then she got picked up by a recruiter for a symphony, then an agent for solo concerts, and here we are. She’s the breadwinner.”

Normally a man would be bothered by that - James certainly was - yet Harry appeared to be as fine as May flowers with it. “You’re okay with that?”

This was another rude question that was often asked, and again, neglected to wound Harry any. “Oh, yeah! Of course! I’m proud of her. She’s doing what she loves, and the money is just a perk. Not to say we’re rolling in it by any means,” he was sure to point out. “We get by. Her big gigs aren’t as frequent as you might think, so she plays for weddings and other events like that while she waits for another important call.” A wide grin prefaced a confession. “Besides, it takes the pressure off _me_ to be very exceptional. Eh.. a bit. I make enough. It evens out.”

“That’s interesting. So what do you do, then, if she’s the one making all the money?”

Bafflingly, Harry turned meek. “I write a little. You know, small articles for the newspaper like daily thoughts to think about, uh, some stuff for organizations, ghostwrite biography blurbs and a short story or two for zines.. stuff like that. Promotional things. I uh, I did some of Jodi’s promotional articles and advertisements. It’s pretty sporadic work, and doesn’t pay very well, to tell the truth..”

Funny how a man that was glad to boast about his wife and family (and to his credit, in a humble way) seemed embarrassed about his own career and evidently, even his own person. James wasn’t all that impressed with it, himself. Writing was a dead end job to him; it wouldn’t ever become something more than a week’s worth of food on the table, unless there was a really lucky break. It was the same for artists. Still, he pressed Harry for more; this polar change was sort of fascinating. “So you like to write?”

Harry ducked his head, his eyes averted; one shoulder rolled. “Heh, yeah, a bit. I’m working on a book right now.”

 _Because of course you are,_ replied a cynical thought. _Wasn’t every writer?_ “What’s it about?”

It was as if Harry knew that he was being judged. He must get it a lot. “It’s sci-fi,” he replied, trying to regain that aplomb he’d embodied this whole time. “Uh, there’s this— there’s this ship that’s— so the crew got sent up to space years ago,” the author described to the ground. “After about five years they suddenly cut contact with their base on earth other than to request more food crates— uh, more like supply crates. So, um, base tried to withhold their supplies to force them for updates, but there’s a, uh, a uh.. an accomplice in the base that’s making sure that they get their stuff anyway..”

The young father wrestled with himself against some kind of unknown humiliation. James observed his insecurity in silence. “So they’re getting their stuff and base doesn’t know how, and they’re just not communicating at all otherwise, and it’s been years, and, uh, so they just keep trying to see what’s going on and they can’t, right, and the world is going nuts over it, and they can’t really declare them missing or dead because they _are_ asking for supply crates, though base starts to really suspect that these requests are automated somehow, and uh..”

Harry looked so _relieved_ when Jodi called for him. The liveliness returned at once and a fresh smile beamed gratefully back at his wife. To his own mild annoyance, James was disappointed about their interruption. He wasn’t relishing in his counterpart’s distress or anything so vicious like that; no, the fumbling plot had actually hooked him. Nevertheless, his focus went to the women who’d moved some distance away for their own conversation.

“Harry, stop burning his ears off. Let’s go home, we’re beat.”

“ _We?_ Are we taking them home with us for a sleepover?”

Mary’s cheeks flushed. Beside Harry, so did James’s in the name of mortification. Jodi playfully tutted. “No, of course not. They won’t fit in our bags.”

“Awwww, maaaaan,” Harry groused, scuffing his foot on the concrete as he meandered over. “C’moooon..”

Jodi nudged Mary and shook her head, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. Mary laughed softly and awkwardly, a little put off by the dark overtones of that last joke, and looked at James when he neared. She looked half-dead and falling asleep on her bare feet - she’d taken off her heels at some point, and now held them by their stilts.

Jeez - _how long had they all been talking?_

“You’re so dramatic,” Jodi was scolding. “ _You_ come on. We’ve bothered these good people enough tonight.”

“Oh, no no, we weren’t bothered at all,” Mary rushed to answer. “This was amazing. We’re really grateful you stopped to talk to us.”

Once beside her, Harry intentionally bumped into his wife, who nudged back, and the two made a brief game of casually pushing each other through their shoulders. “I hope you’re speaking for yourself,” Harry grinned, still participating in their game. “I think James might’ve gotten a whooole lot more than he bargained for. It’s not his fault. I just—“

“You don’t know when to stop talking,” the pianist cut in, her voice chock full of affection. “You just go oooon and oooon and oooon..”

“And ooooon and ooooon and ooooon,” he continued for her, and a shared glance sent them into giggles. James laid his hand on Mary’s back. Her shoulders tensed. _She must be so tired,_ he thought. _And probably grouchy because of it._

Oh, his poor girl. 

Jodi exhaled a musical sigh and turned her warm smile to (Shepherd-)Sunderlands once more. “Well, it was so much fun to meet you two. Thanks for coming to the show, again. It means so much to me, and Mary, I abso _lutely_ encourage you to keep playing and enjoying the piano,” she said to the blonde’s hazy smile. “I hope someday that we can play together.”

“That would be a dream come true, Jodi.”

The pianist playfully wrinkled her nose at James, then took to her ever-patient, happy husband. “Well, Harry..”

Harry nodded and tilted his head at the couple. “Where’re you two parked? It’d be really awkward to say goodbye and then head off in the same direction.”

James offered a faint smile. “We’re up that way.”

“Oh, phew! Crisis averted, we’re down over there. Alright! Well, this is it. It was really great to meet you Mary, James,” he said, shaking their hands in turn. “Safe travels home and for the rest of it.”

“Thank you again, too. It was nice talking.”

“Definitely! I always like to hear my own voice.”

James hummed a noise akin to a chuckle. The writer sighed, looked at Jodi, and jerked his head towards the direction of their car. “C’mon, toots. Let’s blow this joint.”

Their very last goodbyes for good were shared, and they separated for their cars. Mary and James headed up the ramp in silence. Behind them, the building’s acoustics allowed them to hear Jodi ragging on her significant other about his gift for the gab _(If you like to hear yourself talk so much, why don’t you become a politician?)_. Her wit was appreciated, bringing a distant curl of his lip to James’s pale face, but what nearly stopped him in his tracks was the rich, boisterous laughter that filled the entire lot, from ground floor to roof.

James thought about the way Harry laughed the entire drive home. He helped Mary inside and ran the bath for her, took care of her sore, bleeding feet, got her ready and set up comfortably in bed, with her feet elevated on a pillow like Jodi had instructed. She was out like a light when her back hit the bed.

The oven clock read two-o-one when he went to see what the fridge had to offer. In the cold, he wasted the electricity and jeopardized their perishables by staring into the white void for minutes, his brain on a loop.

He closed the door. Then opened it again; and closed. James fetched a small spoon from the drawer and sat down at the table with a cup of cracked pistachio pudding. A few days ago he’d decided to whip some up. Mary had one out of the five tiny glass bowls of it, but rejected it after a couple bites. _It’s weird,_ she’d cited. _Ugh. This is gross, James. Don’t tell me you used up the rest of the milk doing this, too.._

The spoon prodded the gummy skin protecting his cheap dessert James liked pistachio. He also liked it a few days old with this odd texture and sticky film. While it reminded him of a place he didn’t want to remember, old pudding held a fond, nostalgic place in his heart. This was comfort. 

Comfort in a cup.

As he scraped the smallest dips into the mushy pudding to make it last, to savor it, enjoy some real privacy and indulge in peace, he wondered what kind of pudding Harry would like. Maybe classic chocolate. _(His laugh was vivacious. It was powerful and genuine, and kind of what he wagered mahogany would sound like; it must’ve been one of the things that had attracted Jodi in the beginning.)_ Maybe banana creme. Unless Harry was a weirdo, _(it’s just so memorable)_ and liked tapioca, _(James was jealous of his zest for life)_ and it was a stupid thing to think about, and it made James feel skeezy.

The oven clock read two forty-three when he was drying off the dish and putting it away. He folded the towel over the oven handle. Darkness swallowed the kitchen, and James Sunderland finally joined his wife, Mary, in bed.

It took him no time at all to fall asleep.

That night, he dreamt of a rainbow and a yellow brick road.


	2. Chapter 2

**_Some_ **

_JAMES! Come_ **_ON!_ ** _Now’s not the time to have a depressed internal monologue, we have to_ **_GO!_ **

_Harry, I’m serious, I can’t do this. I really can’t._

_I know, that’s why we’re doing it together._

_You’re out of your mind._

_Trust me, buddy, I think the whole crew jumped ship ages ago for the both of us, I tell ya. We’re going to be so fucked up after this._

**_day I’ll wish upon a star_ **

_What’s wrong with you?_

_Ask my therapist! And how about you, eh? What’s wrong with you? Heh, hell, don’t answer that, because speaking of therapy, we’re getting you set up with someone as_ **_soon_ ** _as we get home, holy shit. Talk about not fucking joking about being damaged._

_Really? What the fuck is your problem?_

_Stop fighting me. You’re damaged to hell, James, and so am I! I have not_ **_once_ ** _denied that, I’ve said it just like you have, get over it._

**_And wake up where_ **

_You’re a fucking asshole—_

_God dammit James, don’t you_ **_dare_ ** _let go, I swear to god on Satan’s rock hard dick—_

_I’m not leaving, Harry, let_ **_go_ ** _of me!_

_Fuck no! Come_ **_on!_ **

_You think I wanna come home with you after all that shit you just said? Fuck you, Harry, let go of me already!_

_Yeah, okay! I’m an asshole! I’m a huge fucking, oozing asshole, I’m sorry, would you_ **_please_ ** _just—_

_I_ **_said_ ** _I’m_ **_not fucking leaving!_ ** _You have a goddamn baby in your arms!_

_I sure do! And we - that means all three of us, me, you, and the baby - are getting out of here. How many times do I have to repeat myself?_

_How many times do_ **_I_ ** _have to repeat myself like a broken fucking record? I’m done, I’m staying, you have to let go or else—_

_Well I guess we’re at an impasse then, James! Because, once again,_ **_I’m_ ** _fucking leaving and I’m not leaving without you, so where’s that factor in here?_

_What’s wrong with you?! I_ **_killed_ ** _her!_

_Yeah, you sure did!_

_That’s why I’m here in the_ **_first place!_ ** _Why the fuck do you want to get me out of here?! What is_ **_wrong_ ** _with you?!_

**_the clouds are far_ **

_Haven’t we been through this already? Look, I’ll write an essay about it when we get home, if that’s what you want, if that’ll make things easier to understand, now come_ **_on!_ **

_You’re not supposed to be perfectly okay with dragging home a guy who_ **_killed_ ** _his_ **_wife,_ ** _Harry._

_I’m_ **_not_ ** _perfectly okay with it, alright? Look, can we talk about this later? Later, as in, when we’re safely the fuck out of here? Can we do that, please?_

_Harry—_

_What do you want me to say right now, James? Seriously, what do you want to hear?_

_.. Harry.._

_What do you want to hear?_

_.. please don’t cry._

**_behind me,_ **

_James, please.. please listen to me._

_You know it’s a bad idea. It’s gonna go to shit. This isn’t gonna work out the way you think it will._

_…_

_I know you know it t—_

_I need you to come home with me._

**_Where_ **

_We’re wasting time, Harry. Let go._

**_troubles melt like lemon drops_ **

_All three of us are leaving, James. We’re going home, we’re going to go to so much therapy, we’re gonna figure all this shit out but we’ll do it_ **_when we get home._ **

**_Away above the chimney tops_ **

_.. I.._

**_Please_ ** _, James. .. please. You don’t deserve this, baby. I know you killed her, I know you’re fucked up, I know we’re_ **_both_ ** _fucked up and a little dysfunctional, I know, I know, I fucking_ **_know—_ **

_She needs you._

_I know, and I need her too, and I_ **_really_ ** _need_ **_you_ ** _to_ **_come home_ ** _with me! James, you can hate me later, hate me all you fucking want but I’d be on my knees begging you if I could, okay? Please honey, I need you, I need you so fucking bad and I know I’m an asshole with all that shit I said before and I’m sorry and you can kick my ass later but we all need to go_ **_home!_ **

**_That’s where_ **

_.. okay._

_Okay..?_

**_you’ll_ **

_Let’s go home, Harry._

**_find_ **

_Okay._

**_me._ **


	3. Chapter 3

Heather sent the text message, then took her eyes to the ceiling. 

At the stove, James smirked the moment that the loudest possible banging at the piano couldn’t drown out the great, impassioned stomping keeping the beat. Behind him, his daughter belted a groan, though was sadly unmatched by the din above. 

“Does he have to play _‘Cruella DeVille’_ every time?”

“Yes,” he called back to her, and glanced upwards when the torment stopped. His stirring paused in anticipation for the finale - _shave and a haircut, two bits!_ then resumed his work. 

“I wish he’d learn _‘O Fortuna’_ or something,” the teenager grumbled, taking a clattering seat at the island counter. “Maybe like.. the tarantella from _Inglourious Basterds._ ”

“That’s a good one, yeah.”

“Yeah.”

Clicking and clacking on the marble surface meant she was drumming her nails. “Or maybe like.. hm. Or like _Phantom of the Opera._ That’d be pretty cool.” 

“Be careful what you wish for,” Heather’s father reminded her. She rolled her eyes. 

“Yeah, I know. He’s incorrigible.”

“Ooh, good word,” Harry praised when he arrived just in the nick of time. He slung an arm over his grouchy child’s shoulders, smiling broadly in the face of her ire. “I like it. Remind me to put that in my bio blurb for the next one.”

Heather scoffed. “Let _me_ write the next one, then. I’ll write the most honest bio you’ll ever have.”

Harry pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Mmm.. maybe. Write up some sample drafts first, and mayhaps I’ll consider it more seriously.”

The girl eyeballed her father while he studied his husband’s back. “‘Mayhaps.’ You’re so pretentious. Anyway, you’ll just nitpick it. What’s the matter, dad? Don’t you trust me?”

“Not in the slightest,” he offhandedly replied. “I raised you, remember? I know what sort of shit you store up your sleeve. I put half of it there, myself.” Harry curiously tipped up his chin. “And James put the other half in, mind you. Hey babe,” he began to ask the chef for tonight, “what’re you making?”

“Hamburger Helper,” Heather answered for him, in order to get right back to business. “Yeah, I know how you guys raised me, and I also know that if you let me write a bio for you,” she bravely continued, although she was being gradually drawn in closer and tighter to Harry’s chest, “you’ll never be able to write another one that isn’t going to be disappointing— _dad!_ Stop!”

Harry hooked his arm around Heather’s head, smashing her face between his soft sweater and his locked forearm so that anything else she wanted to say ended up muffled. He dipped his close head to hers. “You’re not ‘babe,’” the author reprimanded his squirming girl. “You’re my terrible, good-for-nothing, irredeemable, rude, disobedient daughter who’s mean to me, and if I were to pick a word to describe you in a nutshell, it’d be either ‘lout’ or ‘spoiled-rotten-princess.’” At that, he landed a loud kiss to the top of her blonde head, and let her have her freedom. “And I love you so much.”

Heather swatted at him, landing two smacks on his arm before he got away. “Jackass! That’s three words.”

“Hyphenate it, and it counts.” The sole teenaged Mason grumpily folded her arms on the counter and watched one parent greet the other with a kiss.

“I dunno about that, dad. Sounds fake. Are you sure you know how to write?”

A smirk countered the way Harry peered over his shoulder. “Have I ever said I know how to write? I just do, Heather, I never said I know _how._ Why don’t you look it up on your handheld internet thingamajig, you millennial?”

“Maybe I will. Get ready to get dunked on, old timer.” She picked up her phone, and set to it.

In the meantime, Harry encircled his arms about James’s waist from behind and dropped his chin to his shoulder. A mellow smile matched the one that rounded that pale face. “Hi, baby.”

“Hi, Harry.” Though James didn’t look at him, the younger of the two felt the way Harry gazed at him with unwavering adoration. It made him smile more as he reached for the chili powder.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“Shut up for a second,” Heather ordered. “Ugh, you guys are so gay, it makes me puke in my mouth. Anyway, so— yeah, you’re right, dad: hyphenated words count as one word. Which is fucked up, very honestly, because you know those sentences where it’s like, ten words all hyphenated? That technically counts as one word. _Someone_ tell me how that makes any logical sense.”

“I hate to say I told you so, Heather,” her professionally loquacious father retorted, “but I told you so.” Then there was a beat, and a much softer version of his voice complained, “Oh no, babe.. no, that’s way too much..”

“I just think that grammar rules are stupid. All the rules are made up and the points _do_ matter, and fuck you if you try to make sense of it! What’s the point of _that?”_

But it seemed like neither of them had heard her. They were having a mild argument - a far more serious problem in comparison to the calamities of the English language, for James was adding too much spicy spice to the Hamburger Helper when he _knows_ that Harry’s a wimp. Pillowing her chin on her fist, Heather observed the two men in their spat that ended with a lighthearted elbow in the author’s gut to shoo him away.

It worked. Harry retreated to their daughter, plunking his elbows down on the counter and his chin in his hands. She mimicked him, and they pouted theatrically at each other for a good block of seconds. 

“Whassamatter, dad? Did dad put actual spices in the food so it tastes good and isn’t bland?”

He nodded morosely. “Yeah. The spicy ones.”

“It’s not spicy, Harry.”

“He wants to burn my tastebuds off.”

“Oh my god,” James muttered under his breath, turning off the stove and collecting plates from the cupboard. “You were fine with these, before.”

“He’s using it to hide the arsenic.”

“You think so?” Harry turned his head, peering suspiciously at his back while dinner was scooped onto the plates. “Babe? Did you use arsenic?”

“No, sweetheart,” James replied. “I ran out last week.”

“Oh, darn.”

“Yeah. We’ll have to put off our poison immunity building on that one until I can order more.”

“Tough gig,” Heather remarked. “Well, there goes _my_ night.”

The Mason family collected their meals, and sat down together for dinner at the little table in the corner. 

Later, the kitchen cleaned up and Heather having retreated to her room, James perched on the piano bench beside his husband. Harry drew his finger across the keys, the musical cascade bringing a fond smile to his partner’s lips. 

Harry loved to play the piano. 

“Seventeen years, honey.”

James nodded. “Yeah.”

Harry’s gaze was brimming with gentleness and adoration. He brushed James’s pretty yellow hair back, marveling its shine, and the glint of the few grey hairs that threaded among the rest, in the moody golden light from the two lamps flanking their place. A shy smile appeared on his beloved’s face, who cast his green eyes to him. 

“It’s been a good seventeen years,” Harry quietly added.

His smile mirrored his own. “Yeah. I’d say so.”

James lowered his head when Harry stroked his cheek under the backs of his fingers, then caught his wrist, pressing a kiss to his knuckles before his hand could fall away. The writer chuckled. 

“Oh, honey.. you make me happy. You make me so fucking happy, James.”

Another kiss held to the same spot. Taking his hand in a proper hold, James entwined their fingers and set their hands on his thigh. “You make me happy too, Harry.”

The swallow from his partner was audible. It made him look up into the aging face that bore deep, honest emotion; the face of a man that could never lie about what he truly felt. For James, Harry’s empathy was a blessing and burden and yes: even after all this time, it still was. He supposed it’d be that way forever.

And he’d learned to love it, and to live with it.

From the moment he’d heard his laugh in a palace of riches he dirtied, to their first real chat in the parking structure, to their shared torment in the endless fog and snow; the way he’d reacted to the fate of a sickly wife, an earnest demand that he _come home_ ; raising a baby girl that had been seven years old just days ago to a beautiful, independent, sharp seventeen year old now;

their arguments, their cold nights, too many drinks and avoidance, too many times sobbing alone at the desk; screaming and begging, therapists, visitations to the hospital - a place they were both terrified of, but where they needed to be; 

_Why do you love me?_

_I can’t not.;_

holding each other tight, making love, little notes secreted away for James to find in his pocket or wallet or beneath his medication that reminded him how dearly he was adored; the simple gift of a fresh cup of coffee, laying out his clothes for the day on the bed, sitting with him at the piano or the kitchen table or the couch with his head upon his shoulder and his silence bellowing, deafening, saying ‘I love you’ without the use of words; 

visiting their lost, celebrating birthdays, Christmas, Halloween, Talk Like A Pirate Day, New Year’s; parent-teacher conferences, navigating bigotry, going to movies and plays and their daughter’s recitals, martial arts belt ceremony, spelling bee, camping, first time on an airplane and soothing her airsickness; Disneyland, Disneyworld, New York City, Vermont, Roswell, book signings, auto shows, an anime convention or two; anniversaries of sobriety; love; life; death; 

_we’re still here, we’ve made it_ ; 

inside jokes that left Harry crying and aching from laughter in the grocery checkout line and employees and shoppers alike uncomfortable and wary about the ordeal; a grin that James couldn’t even wipe off his face with a pressure washer over the one-liner told in polite company and so had to excuse himself to crack up in the bathroom; 

movies difficult to watch, songs difficult to hear, places that returning to made him cry; pictures that he didn’t let him rip up, now framed and placed on the walls where they’d sometimes find each other lost in its captured memory;

_I miss you._

_I’m right here._

_I know._

_So how can you miss me if I’m right here?_

_You mean that much to me.;_

their first year together; can’t pay the bills; two, three jobs; scrounge together the money, overturn the couch cushions, check all pockets; what’s under the bed? what’s in that box? what can they pawn?; overworked, overtired, hungry; but their daughter’s belly is full, she has clothes and school supplies, birthday cake and presents and a childhood in poverty that she never knew (so they hoped) was there; 

she has questions they struggle to answer; she’s upset because their family is different; she wants to know why daddy isn’t home again tonight, for the third time this week; she doesn’t understand why daddy’s crying and trying to pretend everything’s okay when he asks her to bring the phone because daddy’s limp in his arms (it scares her, and it scared her even more when they told her the truth years later); _are you guys mad at me? — no, sweetie, of course not — you promise? — we wouldn’t lie to you, babygirl, cross our hearts and hope to die;_

paperwork; missed deadlines; fired, hired, fired; the debt is piling up; eviction due to ‘noise complaints’ but they knew the real reason why; he can’t, he can’t handle this, he wants out, he can’t do this, he’s scared, he’s not in love; is he cheating?; is _he_ cheating?; a week lost; another week, three weeks, a month and a half; running away and running back into his arms; 

he came home with a black eye; he came home limping; hurt and battered and still have to go out the next day to work; no insurance to be seen for the pain or get the antibiotics for anything but her, only she matters, only her health, and they will find another way to make do; 

a call at four a.m. to come bail him out; two DUI’s, why does he do this?; they fight, they fight; he says things he can’t retract; he goes so far as to mention _her_ to use as a weapon; a fight almost turns to blows; he shoves him; he shoves back; thankfully, that’s as far as it goes; he can’t do it; he’s run away again, he’s run away too; but three months later while she’s at school they’re remembering how much they’re in love; how much they need each other; unhealthy, co-dependent, paranoid; gaslighting; lying; stilted; won’t talk, won’t listen; fine one day and bad the next; taking it minute by minute, hour by hour, whatever he has to do to get through it;

it’s an overnight hit; excitement, phone calls, congratulations, articles and media; a big paycheck; a little jealousy; the bills are getting paid and they still have money to save, to spend; the guilt over new shoes, a new jacket, an outfit for the interview, he doesn’t need this, just wasting money on himself when his family needs it more, he’s not worth it; the guilt over a birthday gift received knowing how much he worries _(why is it different when you spend money on me? — because, well.. it’s.. it’s just different — it shouldn’t be, so let’s get over it, okay?)_ ; accepting pros instead of just the cons, trying to say thank you and bring himself to use the new toolset on the fixer-upper he’d been wanting to find; to work on; and now parked in the garage;

they’re happy, they’re no longer hungry; the debt is dwindling; the apartment is warm in the winter and cool in the summer; a vacation that isn’t local;

she notices daddy’s working a lot in his office, writing at the computer and talking on the phone; she notices something’s wrong; really wrong; she feels sick because daddy’s breath smells like _that stuff_ again and doesn’t know what to do; she’s by herself, isolating, worried, confused, doesn’t know if she can talk to her dads but she needs to, she needs to so badly; she hears them argue and she cries; she bursts into the middle of another one and now they’re all upset; the phone rings and he sees how they despise it, so it rings, and rings, and rings, and rings and rings and rings and goes to the answering machine; the relief on their angry faces; he knows, he’s sorry, he’ll change, and he does;

and so does he; 

there’s a gold-plated coin in his pocket that boasts one whole year and he’s never without it, not even to this day; he has others that are tucked in a keepsake box on their dresser, but this one celebrates a whole year and transfers daily from pocket to pocket; the day it almost started all over again, standing at the kitchen sink with that bottle he doesn’t remember buying at the convenience store; he was supposed to call his sponsor, but he’s too numb; he doesn’t feel like a person; how he didn’t get mad when he found him, the bottle open but not a drop missing; how the first thing he did was wrap his arms around him from behind, pulling him tight to his chest, so tight that the physical pain couldn’t contend with the one in his heart—

 _I don’t know how it got here. I don’t remember buying it. I don’t remember_ **_opening_ ** _it._

_I believe you._

_I didn’t take a drink, Harry. I didn’t, I swear._

_I believe you._

_I’m not gonna drink again. I’m not doing that again, okay? I promised! and I_ **_meant_ ** _it! I don’t— I don’t know how— god, Harry, I’ve_ **_really_ ** _been wanting a drink lately, god I need a_ **_fucking_ ** _drink—_

_And you haven’t had one. That’s fucking incredible, James. I know when you’ve been drinking, even if it’s just one stupid beer._

_.. I know.. I know, I’m sorry.._

_Hey.. hey. You’re always going to be in recovery, baby. This is_ **_huge_ ** _, okay? You’ve had urges and I wish— .. I hope you’ve been talking to Vanessa about it.._

_Yeah.. a little.._

_There’s no shame, sweetheart. .. I know you can’t help it. I’m here for you, James. I love you so much, and I’m so proud of you._

_Hh.. but what if I_ **_did?_ ** _Would you.. god, you should.._

_If you did, James, I’ll still love you. I’ll still be here. You’re sick. I want to get you help and I want to help you any way I can. You’re an alcoholic, my love, and you’re human, and this is just a bump in the road. If you hit a pothole, I’ll still be here, and I’ll still be here and love you fiercely even if you get totaled. .. oh, sweetheart.._

_Don’t cry with me, I can’t stand it when you cry._

_You think I can stand it any more? Baby, you break my heart, I love you so much— you have_ **_got_ ** _to believe me._ **_Please._ ** _I know I’ve threatened to leave you before if you started drinking again but that’s all past. I’m not going anywhere. I’m not letting you go, I’m not going to stop loving you and trying to help you because I_ **_need you,_ ** _James. We need you. I’m so scared, baby, I’m so scared and I’m— s-sorry, I’m.. t-tell me how I can support you right now, honey. What do you need?_

_.. just hold me._

_I’ve got you, baby. I love you._

_.. tighter._

**_I love you._ **

_I love you too, Harry. I hate being sick._

_I know._

_It’ll never go away._

_I know, sweetheart. And guess what?_

_.. what?_

_I’m still going to love you every second of every day. I love you. I care about you. I’m going to be here, no matter how sick you get._

_I hate it when you cry._

_I know._

_Please stop crying.._

_I can’t. I just can’t. You don’t understand how_ **_badly_ ** _I need you and love you and if I could wipe it all away I would in a heartbeat. I love you too much. I hate it when you cry too, my love, because when you cry I know it’s_ **_that bad_ ** _and my heart just fucking_ **_breaks._ ** _I love you, James. I’m here for you. I’m as real as you are. My biggest and best mistake was loving you and I’d give my whole life—_

_Harry, please—_

_You’re the bravest man I know, and whatever you need, baby, just say the word.._

_.. c.. can you hold me just.. as_ **_tight_ ** _as you fucking can while I pour this out?_

_I’ve got you, James. You’re safe. I love you._

_I love you too, Harry._

_I’m so fucking proud of you._

_I love you, too. .. I’m safe._

_You’re safe. I’ve got you. I’m not letting go. I promise._

_I love you, too._

new friends; new home; new garden, gardener; new paint on the walls, replacing the furniture, remodeling the kitchen; 

therapy; therapy; therapy;

 _couples_ therapy;

 _family_ therapy;

taking a seat at the piano one afternoon with him to hear out the rest of that song; presenting a box, him opening it to a ring and an emotional request; laughing, tearful laughing; him telling him to get up and when he does, he opens the bench and procures a similar box for him to open; they’re laughing together over the absurd coincidence and place the rings on each other’s fingers; crying together; engaged; he calls him his betrothed and he calls him his fiancé; they make love in that room — oh, how they make love;

an intimate wedding; a small affair; she cries and they cry, their friends along with them; an unforgettable day; an unforgettable honeymoon; he’s proud to introduce him as his husband, and neither will tire of it;

the intricacies of raising their daughter; navigating adolescence; navigating friends and broken friendships; a boy; the nervous introduction of a girl; she feels silly about it, because her parents are two men; they joke; they belatedly come out; her questions lead to memories; she learns about the women they lost; they cry together as a family;

getting older together; he greys first and they suit him; his silver is sparse, and he loves to run his fingers through his hair to find more; there’re more greys; he’s aging, and so is he; there are lines on their faces, and he loves the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes; he loves the creases beneath his; he stays slim while he puts on some weight; he’s self conscious; he reminds him how gorgeous he is to him; and he believes him, because he sees it;

to their first meeting to their second and third in a mortal hell, to the first kiss and the kiss today, their first argument, their denial, the times they were sure they’d lost each other forever, their little girl’s birthdays, milestones, anniversaries of all kinds:

_they’re still here. they’ve made it._

From then until now, James has loved him, cherished him more and more every day, and couldn’t imagine a life without Harry (Sunderland-)Mason. 

From then until now, Harry has been devoted to him, loved him more and more every day, and couldn’t imagine a life without James Sunderland (-Mason).

They’ve made it together. 

Harry set his hands on the keys. A paler hand spread its fingers over his thigh and squeezed, and they both smiled.

Heather lifted her head from her focus on her phone. She slid off her bed, leaving the device where she’d sat, and went to the open door. There she leaned on the frame, folding her arms over her chest, smiling as she listened to the music her father had painstakingly arranged all year and practiced in secret (from his spouse) for this special day. 

Well, it was special for two reasons: one, it was her birthday (and obviously the best part of the year); 

And two: it was the anniversary of the start of a lifelong whirlwind story of a romance between two men that were still writing their happily ever after. (Which was just as important, she guessed.)

Heather loved her dads. They were peas in a pod, two lovebirds cuddled on a branch. There were a lot of memories that had been repressed until she was sobbing in a therapist’s office that smelled of orange and lavender, and there were times she daydreamed about with a light, excited heart cartwheeling in her chest. Their family was loving, chaotic, perfect, perfectly dysfunctional, and through its encyclopedia of faults as broad as the collection of successes, she wouldn’t have it any other way. 

Her blonde head (that needed a trip to the salon - her roots were showing) tipped to the threshold. Two timeless classics wove together as one and floated through the house. It’d linger on the walls and illuminate the sun’s beams in the windows in what heaven’s whites and golds must look like up above in the clouds. It’d stay for days, weeks, or even years. The music Harry played was the best paint that money couldn’t buy. 

Their only daughter smiled.

_(somewhere over the rainbow,)_

Maybe one day she’d be in love with someone who would love her as desperately as her fathers did each other. Heather hummed along to a king’s bold confessions that shared the stage with a young girl’s lonely dreams. Her dad was a cheeseball. _(only fools rush in)_ She’d staunchly pretended she hadn’t cried when she heard it in full perfection for the first time, and tried to lie about it to Harry’s face - but he saw through her like she was made of plastic wrap. He always saw through her.. and him. 

_(skies are blue)_

And although James had a contemptuous, wishy-washy relationship with showing bare emotions, Heather never worried if he was hiding something from them anymore. _(there are dreams)_ Polar fucking opposites, those two. They were endearing as they were maddening, but hey - they seemed to get along well enough. _(that I can’t help)_ That’s what really matters, right? 

_(of falling in love with you)_

Thank _god_ for therapy. 

She sniffled and drug the backs of her hands repeatedly over her tear-stricken eyes. _(somewhere over the rainbow,)_ Heather’s heart throbbed that contradictory, heavy agony of a heart that was broken by the means of genuine love. 

God, love was so fucking stupid.

_(take my hand)_

Her _parents_ were so fucking **_stupid_** _._

_(way up high)_

Ugh.

Heather returned to her bed sucking her congested nose and using her t-shirt to wipe her face, and as a kleenex. An actual box of tissues was on her nightstand, and _(take my whole life too)_ she snatched four to mop up her eyes _(there are dreams)_ and blow her nose.

Her phone lit up.

Collecting the device, she frowned at a simple message notification _(of falling in love)_ from a sender named, “unknown.”

_(with—)_

Still making a racket with her clogged up face and wasting tissues, she sat down on the edge of her bed and unlocked her phone _(birds fly)_ to get a better look.

“What the hell is this?”

_(over the rainbow,)_

The phone, suddenly vibrating an incoming call, displayed the same “unknown” label and almost sent Heather’s leaping body out of her skin.

Gut instinct told her not to answer the call. _(but I)_ Somehow, her thumb pressed the green acceptance button on the screen, and put the phone to her ear. 

There was someone breathing on the other end of the line. Of course, it could be some sicko getting his jollies, but she had a twisted, urgent need to listen. She knew she should _(can’t)_ put the phone down. No - she _needed_ to put the phone down. Dread blackened her core with dizzying, rotting fear when the wet breathing purred its swampy muck, and a voice she didn’t - _she didn’t, right?_ \- recognize (yeah.. yeah, no, she definitely didn’t recognize it, at all) greeted her through a smile she could hear.

Heather’s heart plummeted like frozen iron right through the soles of her feet.

_(help)_

“Happy birthday,”

_(falling in)_

said a man who spoke tenderly, sympathetically - like a father, or like a sympathetic executioner.

“Who is—“

_(love)_

“Alessa.”

_(with)_

And suddenly, the Masons were only two.

_(you.)_


End file.
